For some extra dimension of pain, recall the first time you realized that Rodney is wearing John’s jacket again in that fucking improv-operation room cave
Whimper, rinse, repeat
Since Norwegian language history has not miraculously become any more interesting but I still have to know about every twist and turn of it the last two hundred years for my exam, here are three more procrastinational McShep drabbles!
One kind of hurt/comfort one in the aftermath of a couple of Wraith managing to sneak into Atlantis and then the (post-coital) aftermath from different POVs.
John can no longer confidently trace the line of events that brought him here, but between the thunder of his own pulse and the glass paintings of the gateroom and the trembling shape of Torren held securely to him, it doesn’t seem too important.
He blinks against the glare of the room; everything is too bright and the people milling around him are interchangeable flashes of colours and noise flickering by and circling around in his head like moths. It occupies all the space in the world that isn’t filled with the horrible hitching sounds of Torren crying.
John tucks Torren to him even closer, probably too hard but two tiny hands are still in a near-death-grip around his neck so maybe not. John is seeing Wraith in every damn corner, in every shadow shuddering at the edge of his vision.
“It’s okay, buddy,” he murmurs against Torren’s hair, though he doesn’t quite believe it himself. It seems way too easy. “They’ve gone, it’s okay now.”
One of the spots of colour falters and hovers and folds into focus as Major Lorne.
“Are you two alright, sir?”
The words need some serious parsing through John’s higher brain functions, which have largely been taking backseat to the reptilian hindbrain the last few hours.
Torren’s fingers are drilling almost painfully into his shoulder, blissfully, miraculously strong and warm and whole.
“Yeah, I think we’re okay,” John tells the pale oval of Lorne’s face balanced on top of the smudge of dark uniform. “Keller should take a look, though, just to be on the safe side.” It takes him a few minutes to recognize his own voice. It sounds way too steady considering how his head is swimming. “Where’s Teyla?”
“She’s on her way up here, sir. They’ve got the last Wraith cornered down in the lower levels. Ronon’s taking care of it.”
“Good.” Torren’s sobs have subsided into small sniffles. John maneuvers him a little more onto his hip so that he can see his face. “Hey, buddy, you hear that? Your mom’s on her way. I guess she kicked some Wraith butt, huh?”
In a turn of events unheard of since Torren discovered the power of his own voice as a three-month old, he’s mostly quiet, just nods with slack dark eyes and buries his face in John’s neck in an unguarded slump.
John tucks his hand over the back of Torren’s head, wincing a little as his fingers brush the hair that is clumped and sticky with Wraith blood.
THIS IS MY WAR CRY
DO NOT QUESTION ME, HEATHENS
YOUR INPUT REGARDING MY EATING HABITS/CHOICE OF CUTLERY IS NEITHER WANTED NOR WELCOME
…but I appreciate the company.
When I started watching this show I turned to myself and said - you know what I said?
“Hey, I know your moral compass doesn’t always point reliably to the North but I think we can navigate this one,” I told myself.
“I know it looks like Mads Mikkelsen being classy as fuck but it’s ACTUALLY HANNIBAL THE CANNIBAL don’t let them trick you” I told myself, “don’t let them make you unthinkingly condone terrifying murder and cannibalism because Dr Lecter’s facial expressions make you flail with glee”
“He kills and then EATS people he deems rude” I told myself, “no amount of psychobabble or Mads Mikkelsen can change that”
“Aaaaw poor itsy bitsy psychopath wanting to make a friend and sitting awkwardly behind his desk when Will doesn’t show up,” I told myself, realizing that the slippery slope had taken me all the way to the bottom of the hill and not minding because wow what a view
Three random McShep drabbles because exams are looming on the horizon and it’s freaking me out and I have no appropriate coping mechanisms but rampant escapism.
One pining!John, one vaguely angsty and not-at-.all-vaguely vague one and then one smutty fluffy one
John makes a point not to think about it too much, and usually it wouldn’t be very hard.
He doesn’t think a lot about sex, really, never has; from time to time the offer comes tumbling into his lap and he’s happy to oblige, but that’s about it. It’s been a feature of life, much like a direly needed shower or a really good sandwich – pleasant, but not really a competition to things that go over 200 mph.
In a distant sort of way he knows that guys do more for him than women do - he also knows that right up until very recently guys were about 300% more risky to get involved with and women, by contrast, generally smelled a lot better and were about 300% less likely to get him banned from ever flying a military aircraft again.
If Holland hadn’t managed to crash his stupid ass in Afghanistan it might have turned out differently, but he had and it didn’t, so John hadn’t given it any more attention.
The problem right now is that John thinks about fucking Rodney even when he smells like stale lab air and old sweat and blue jello.
You guys I just found this on my hard drive
BUT I DON’T REMEMBER MAKING EITHER OF THEM?
did I drunk-draw or something
~*Couples who inadvertently blow up solar systems together
(edit: four fifths of solar systems let’s keep our facts straight here)
Since a slightly later than average first performance Rodney has not actually had a lot of sex, nevermind actual good sex with the presence of, if not mutual affection then at the very least mutual liking. Before Katie Brown anything that lasted much over a couple of weeks had seemed like some strange mythological concept to him.
It appeared that no matter how much effort you put into perfecting your cunnilingus technique it would eventually not make up for a plethora of personality traits that could, with a certain lack of goodwill, be construed as negative. Amy Lin had even been vaguely apologetic about it all, saying he was a great fuck but if she had to see his annoying fucking face one more time she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions. Then she threw her Collected Works of Shakespeare at his head.
(Rodney had chosen to focus on the positives at the time. In hindsight he can see that repeatedly insulting your target of affection’s choice of major might not be the smoothest move, no matter what fancy thing you’ve learned to do with your tongue.)
He’s still thought about it, though. He’s thought about it a lot.
There were a couple of tweaks needed to apply it to a different set of genitalia, maybe, but Rodney has not become the head of the science department in another galaxy by failing to appreciate a challenge.
Rodney really hopes John appreciates having twenty five years worth of pent up sexual imagination of one of the finest minds in history all to himself.
I had a wonderful Journey with another person wearing the White Cloak, on the 21st April. He (or she) was very calm, so it was the most relaxing Journey I’ve played so far.Usually, I draw stuff in the snow at the end of the game… So, just before we walked into the light, I called him with some chirping sounds and drew a heart. He looked at it for a few seconds, then he drew a bigger heart next to the first one. That was really cute.
Companion name: N-kirin
Drawn in the train & colored with Photoshop.
Journey (c) Thatgamecompany
I have never felt as close to anyone as I did when I played Journey and communicated solely in enthusiastic little chirps and jumps through the sand dunes
This probably says more about me than I am comfortable with knowing
Ariadne’s last natural dream is one of wistfulness; it’s about the ending of childhoods.
She dreams of a giant structure built like mangled ribs crushed into each other, walls smooth and white and unblemished. It isn’t a labyrinth, or if it is, it isn’t for her. She walks straight through it, stepping between the streaks of sunlight washing through the slits between the bone pillars.
In the centre there’s a sandbox, mile upon mile of softly curving dunes under an open blue sky.
The walls curve around it, built like an amphitheatre. It smells like spring in there.
A child is playing with a spade and bucket, dark head tucked in like a comma in the great big silence of the sand. It takes Ariadne fifteen minutes to walk over to where it’s sitting, distances shifting and tensing in the dreamscape.
“What are you making?” she asks the child. Before the face turns up she knows that it’s herself, kid nose upturned and stubby, knees muddy and bruised like all the best late summer evenings.
“Dunno yet,” Little Ariadne says. “You want to join in?”
“Sure,” Ariadne says, crouching down and taking a rake.
Up on the tribune is her father, looking another way.
Cobb is there too, blonde hair a blur in the shadows. He’s holding a red thread in his hand. The red thread is unravelling from Ariadne’s clothes like kite string. She tries to tug on it but he doesn’t notice. Then she shrugs off her red hoodie and starts making a pile of sand next to Little Ariadne’s.
“Are you digging for minotaur skulls, cherie?” asks a woman’s voice from behind her, light and smiling and tinged with French.
you know for all this episode makes me curl up into a whimpering ball, crazily whispering Joooooohn and nooo baby and why the hell did the writers think this was an okay place to leave a character emotionally at the end of a show, at least give the guy a hug (read: a Canadian scientist)
I still feel like they pulled their punches a bit too much
I mean I’m PRETTY SURE John Sheppard’s mind is better at self-flagellation than that
A+ for amputation scene but really, where were the lovingly/effectfully vague described demises of his team in Kolya’s dulcet tones? (Pausing meaningfully at Torren because ow ow ow) The cheerful exploitation of his abandonment issues?
after a career of writing strictly PG-13, not-even-comfortable-with-writing-kisses rated stuff I’m suddenly working on three PWPs at the same time